Never wager unless you control the stakes.
And she’d thought she held such a strong hand.
Agnes Grey forced her head against the rattling seat back, clenched the armrests with such force her nails broke. Perspiration soaked her brow, seeping into her eyes, but she refused to cry. She was too old to cry.
The plane was going down into the water within sight of her home. Home—warm, safe, dry. She’d never see it again.
Her friend Henry Reid strained to look back, his white knuckles bulging on the wheel as he fought to regain control of the spiraling Cessna, but the fiery plane seemed bent on destruction. Panic flashed through his eyes. “Tighten your belts. Put your head between your knees.”
His concern was sweet, but it wouldn’t change the outcome. Their fate was set.
They were going down—hard and fast. The other passengers’ terrified expressions said they knew it too. Innocents, every one, Agnes thought, fury on their behalf trumping her own fear. She was the only one on board who knew this catastrophe was no mechanical failure. It was him. She knew it as surely as she knew she’d seen her last sunset.
A bitter cry tore from her cracked lips. Any semblance of control on her part had been an illusion.
She’d played her hand, and he’d just called her on it.
If she hadn’t been so stinking stubborn, if she’d kept her mouth shut and given him what he wanted . . . But Momma hadn’t raised her like that. She’d done the right thing. She only wished she hadn’t brought the others down with her.
Managing to crane her neck left, she took in the sight of the loving couple’s hands clasped tight, crying as they whispered frantic words to each other.
Agnes’s stomach lurched. She’d brought them on this journey, doomed them to a watery tomb.
At least now he’d be satisfied. She’d be gone. They’d be gone. No one was left to . . .
Acid burned up her throat.
Bailey.